Revenge
by Katie Lyyn-98
Summary: "You see, Miss Mason, things happen when people don't listen to my orders. Bad things. When I tell someone to do something, I expect them to listen and obey. But you . . . you, my dear, are a spitfire. You don't like orders and you don't follow rules. Those are very bad qualities in a victor."


"Hello, Miss Mason."

His chilling voice sends a shiver down my spine. I force my back to straighten and my face to relax. I won't let him unnerve me. I won't. I turn around and face the devil himself.

President Cornelius Snow regards me with an amused expression. My stomach feels queasy as I stare at him, eye to eye. I have nothing to lose. I can afford to look him in the eye.

"Hello, Mr. President." I pride myself on the way my voice stays calm and steady, when everything in me pleads to be unleashed and allowed to tear him into pieces. "You wanted to see me?"

"Yes, I did. I heard about the," He pauses deliberately, smirking slightly at the way my shoulders tense, predicting what he's about to say, "_accident _that claimed your parents' and little brother's lives. I am dreadfully sorry. How are you handling it?"

My heart hammers in my ears, my eyes seeing nothing but red. I'll kill him. I will. I will. My lungs can't get enough air. I can't breathe. Maybe he's killed me. No, that'd be too kind. "_You . . ._" I get no farther before I lunge at him, my fingers clawing at any inch of flesh I can find.

He pushes me roughly, much more roughly than I figured he could, considering how old and frail he looks. I'm knocked to the hard floor, causing my body to scream out in pain. He looks at me in disgust. "I'd advise you, Miss Mason, to not attack me again. Or lose control of your temper. Bad things happen to people who do, you know."

A growl rumbles through my throat. "I have nothing to lose. You killed my family. My _family. _What did they ever do to you?"

He laughs; a terrifying sound. I'd much rather hear him scream at me in rage. "It's not what _they _did to me. It's what you did to them."

"What are you talking about?"

He pulls a lacy white handkerchief out of his pocket and dabs delicately at his mouth. "I didn't kill then, Miss Mason. I haven't killed anyone. _You _killed them."

I stand up carefully, ignoring the pain in my back and tailbone. "No I didn't. I would never hurt them. You're insane."

He smiles at me. "Oh, you'd never hurt them, would you? They would disagree with you, if they were still alive."

He walks out from behind his desk – made of oak wood, I absently note – and circles slowly around me. Like a shark. Finnick talked to me about sharks when we first met. I'm starting to see a resemblance. "You see, Miss Mason, things happen when people don't listen to my orders. Bad things. When I tell someone to do something, I expect them to listen and obey. But you . . . you, my dear, are a spitfire. You don't like orders and you don't follow rules. Those are very bad qualities in a victor.

"You may or may not know," he continues, still circling, "I was not rooting for you in the games. I don't particularly like Sevens. They're loud and brash and want complete control over themselves and their minds. You are no exception. I prefer Ones and Twos as victors. They're already brainwashed by the time they're toddlers, so it's not hard convincing them to do what I say. But the farther the district is, the more independent they get. Seven is somewhere in the middle."

I shrug, trying to form a plan of how I can kill him without getting caught. Or maybe I should get caught. Kill the president and die along with my family. I just need something to kill him with. "So what?"

"I knew you'd cause trouble. I took one look at you and told the head gamemaker 'you make sure she dies.' You know what he told me? He said, 'that won't be a problem. She's too weak to survive past the bloodbath.' Oh, but I knew better. I saw inside your little game. You played innocent and weak and surprised everyone. Everyone but me, that is. But you're not as innocent as they all think. Do you know where that gamemaker is now?"

I shake my head. "I don't know for certain, but I could make a wild guess."

"He's dead, Miss Mason."

"I figured, but I thought you said you haven't killed anyone?"

He steps in front of me and smiles. "I haven't."

I stare him down. He's nothing but a filthy murderer. Worse than . . . me. "What about all of those dead kids?"

"Oh, Miss Mason. I never touched a single one of them. I didn't kill them. You did. You and the other victors. You're the killers. Not me. It'll do you good to remember that."

Oh, I remember. I always remember. Every night when I lie down and close my eyes, I remember. I hear their screams and I smell the blood and I feel the heat of the fight as I take down another tribute, another person, another mother's child. I remember it when my family would shy away from me, wincing every time I picked up a sharp object or whispering behind my back when they thought I wasn't looking.

"Is that really what you think?" I choke out. "You think you are innocent because your hands didn't get dirty with their blood and sweat?"

He looks surprised. "Why, of course."

"You're sick," I hiss between my teeth, "You're sick and I will destroy you."

Again, he looks almost amused. "Will you, now?"

"I'll destroy you, and everything you love. You took everything from me." My voice inches higher with every sentence, every word. I'm borderline hysterical, but I don't care, I don't care. "You took my family, my home, my sanity! You took away the only things I had, and now I'm going to take them from you. I will kill everyone with even a trace of your bloodline. I will burn this place to the ground. I. Will. Destroy. You."

I take a step closer to him, reveling in the uncertainty and fear that flashes in his eyes. "And you know what? I'll make you watch every second of it. And when it's done? I'll come after you. And you'll plead. You'll beg. You'll try to reason. But when I raise my ax and bury it in your chest, I'll be laughing."

The fear and uncertainty is gone again. Replaced by the grave amusement that makes me want to rake my fingers down his face. "Oh, Miss Mason." He reaches out and picks up a piece of my long, raven hair. "If you want your beloved mentor – Blight, wasn't that his name? – to remain among the living, you should put that kind of talking out of your mind." His eyes flit over my features before smiling. "Yes, you'll fetch me a fancy price amongst the crowds." His hand drops my hair and he turns, taking cover behind his desk. "You're dismissed, Miss Mason."

I turn and walk out, my surroundings a blur.

* * *

Later that night, when I'm home, I take a good look in the mirror before grabbing a pair of scissors. I have my mother's hair. My hair is one of the things the Capitol loves most about me. It's what my mother loved most about me, sad as that may sound. But I don't care. I won't care. Snow touched my hair. I want it gone.

"I'm sorry, Mama." I take the scissors to my hair and hesitate before adding, "Goodbye, Johanna, I'm so sorry," and then I snip away, leaving a ring of black around my feet, along with the old me.

When I'm done, I look at the mirror again. My hair is uneven and spiky in some places. I probably cut too much. It'll spark controversy in the Capitol; it'll set a new trend. But, to me, it's a small form of revenge.

The Capitol took what I loved most and changed me. So I took what they loved most about me and changed myself.

Even as small and insignificant as it is, it's still my victory. I look my reflection in the eye and promise myself. "I'll get him. I'll get him and I'll destroy him."


End file.
